Missing the train, she returned home without warning and couldnt hold back her tears.
Running late, Emily decided to return unannounced. The moment she stepped through the door, the tears came unbidden. A bitter October wind lashed her face with sharp raindrops as she watched the train disappear into the distance. A dull ache settled in her chest. Late. For the first time in fifteen years of regular trips homelate. “Like a bad dream,” she thought, mechanically tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The platform stood empty and eerie, the yellow lamps reflecting in puddles, casting strange paths of light.
“The next train isnt until tomorrow morning,” the clerk said indifferently, barely glancing at her. “Theres a coach, if youd prefer?”
“A coach?” Emily frowned. “Three hours rattling down country lanes? No, thank you.”
Her phone buzzed in her purseher mother calling. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, staring at the screen, but didnt answer. Why cause worry? Better to slip in quietly, keys in hand. The cab sped through deserted streets, the city outside the window flat and unreal, like stage scenery.
The driver muttered about the weather and traffic, but Emily barely listened. Something unfamiliar stirred inside herneither anxiety nor joy, just a quiet, unplaceable weight.
The old house greeted her with darkened windows. Climbing the stairs, she inhaled the familiar scents of childhood: roast potatoes from the flat above, laundry powder, the faint mustiness of aged wood. But today, something dissonant lurked beneath the usual symphony.
The key turned stiffly in the lock, as if the door resisted her. The hallway stood dark and silenther parents were already asleep. Treading carefully to her room, she switched on the desk lamp. Everything was as shed left it: bookshelves, the old writing desk, the threadbare teddy bear on her beda relic her mother had never been able to part with. Yet something was wrong. Something intangible had shifted.
Perhaps it was the silence. Not the usual night-time hush, but something thicker, heavier, like the air before a storm. The house seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Emily reached for her laptopwork never restedbut as her hand brushed the socket, she knocked a small box from the shelf. It tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents.
Letters. Dozens of yellowed envelopes with faded postmarks. And a photographold, its corners curled. A young womanhardly more than a girllaughing, her head resting on a strangers shoulder. A tear fell onto the image before Emily even realised she was crying.
Hands trembling, she opened the first letter. The handwriting was bold, assured, utterly foreign.
*”Dearest Margaret, I know I shouldnt write, but I cant bear the silence any longer. Every day I think of you, of us Forgive me, I cant even bring myself to write itour daughter. How is she? Does she look like you? Will you ever forgive me for leaving?”*
Her pulse roared in her ears. She grabbed another letter, then another. Dates from 1988, 1990, 1993 Her whole childhood, her whole life, spelled out in a strangers hand.
*”I saw her from a distance outside the school. So serious, with a satchel bigger than she was. I didnt dare approach”*
*”Fifteen years old. I imagine what a beauty shes become. Margaret, perhaps its time?”*
A lump rose in her throat. The lamplight sharpened the strangers face in the photographhigh forehead, keen eyes, a faintly mocking smile. Good Lord, she had his nose. That slight tilt of the head
“Emily?” Her mothers quiet voice made her start. “Why didnt you tell me you?”
Margaret froze in the doorway, staring at the scattered letters. The colour drained from her face.
“Mum, what is this?” Emily held up the photograph. “Dont tell me he was just a friend. I can see itI can *feel* it.”
Her mother sank onto the edge of the bed. In the lamplight, her hands shook.
“William William Harold Whitmore,” she whispered, as if speaking from another room. “I thought I thought that chapter was closed.”
“*Chapter?*” Emilys voice cracked. “You mean my *life*! Why did you never tell me?”
“Because it was necessary!” Pain tore through her mothers words. “You dont understandthings were different then. His family, mine They wouldnt allow it. He was sent awaytransferred without discussion. And a month later, I met your” She faltered. “Your father. A good man. Dependable.”
*Dependable*, echoed in Emilys mind. *Like an old armchair. Like a wardrobe. Like everything in this flat.*
“But the letters Why keep them?”
“Because I couldnt throw them away!” Her mothers voice broke. “They were all I had left. He wrote every month, then less often But he wrote.”
Emily picked up the last letter. Three years old.
*”Dearest Margaret, Ive moved to Willowbrook, a cottage on Hawthorn Lane. Perhaps one day Always yours, W.”*
“Willowbrook,” Emily murmured. “Thats barely four hours from here.”
Her mother paled. “Dont even thinkEmily, leave the past alone!”
“The *past*?” Emily stood. “This isnt the past. Its *now*. And I have a right to know.”
Outside, dawn finally broke. A new day demanded new choices.
“Im going,” Emily said firmly. “Today.”
For the first time in that endless night, she felt certain she was doing the right thing.
Willowbrook met her with a chill wind and drizzling rain. The village seemed frozen in time: weathered cottages, sparse foot traffic, lanes so quiet they might have been lifted from a Brontë novel.
Hawthorn Lane lay on the outskirts. Emily walked slowly, scanning house numbers. Her heart thundered so loudly she feared the whole street could hear.
Number 17. Neat, small, with curtains drawn and golden asters in the front garden. The gate stood unlocked.
*What do I even say?* she wondered. *”Hello, Im your daughter?”*
But the choice was taken from her.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped onto the porch, a book in hand. He looked upand the book slipped from his fingers.
“Margaret?” he breathed.
“No Not Margaret.”
“Im Emily,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Emily Margaret though Im not certain of the surname anymore.”
William Whitmore went pale, gripping the porch rail.
“Good Lord,” he managed. “Come in please.”
The cottage smelled of books and fresh coffee. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with volumes. Above the fireplace hung a print of *The Lady of Shalott*Emilys favourite painting since childhood.
“I always knew this day would come,” William said, fumbling with cups. “But I imagined it a thousand ways”
“Why didnt you fight for us?” The question escaped before she could stop it.
He stilled, kettle in hand. “Because I was weak,” he admitted simply. “Because I believed it was better that way. The greatest mistake of my life.”
The raw grief in his voice tightened her throat.
“You know,” he said, gazing somewhere past her, “every year on your birthday, I bought you a gift. Theyre all here”
He opened a door to the next room. Emily gasped. Along the wall stood orderly stacks of books, each tied with ribbon.
“A first edition *Alices Adventures in Wonderland*for your fifth,” he said, lifting the top volume gently. “*The Little Prince* with the authors illustrationsyour seventh I chose what Id have read to you.”
Emily ran a finger over the spines. Thirty years of conversations never had, thirty years of stories never shared.
“And this” He pulled out a dog-eared journal. “Your first published piece. *Letters to Nowhere*, in *The Literary Review*. I recognised your writingyou phrase things just as I do.”
“You followed me?” She didnt know whether to be angry or weep.
“Not followed. Just lived parallel. Like a shadow. Like a reflection in warped glass.”
They talked until evening. Of books and poetry, roads not taken, the wedding hed watched from a distance, the anonymous feedback hed sent on her early articles.
When dusk fell, Emily realised shed been calling him “Father” for hours. The word had slipped out, natural as breathing.
“I should go,” she said, rising. “Mums likely beside herself.”
“Tell her” He hesitated. “No. Not like this. Ill write. One last time.”
At the gate, he stopped her suddenly.
“Emily! Will you ever forgive me?”
She turned. In the half-light, his outline blurred.
“I already
